in vapid hands she rung her toiling back
back familiar and I covered under shades
turned down that cool voicing that splayed
my thoughts along cave walls
or a long brick tunnel.
Those tendrils
he calls fingers
rummaging around in the burned haywire
singe-ing up the end of that cylinder, that
lightning twice afraid and too cylindrical
to hit. Arounding coil splat spew light
through a paper cut cardinally burned,
burned on the fringe,
burned out and inch left and spring
up into that long brick tunnel.
This dance on leveling dimensions,
this sonneto, this doesn't leaving limps on
toward that burned be on ends and
jump, lick latex to spend eternal odds
roving over new corners in the same
summer-old long brick tunnel.
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